Young Heart
by WingedFlight
Summary: Strange, how war and love twist everything into confusion.


**_New and Improved A/N: _**_Not very exciting, just going to say that this has been edited. _

_**A/N:**__ It was only a few weeks ago that I realized with surprise that Digory and Polly had lived through WWI - and what's more, they were in their twenties at the time. The result: a war-time romance that I'm putting up just in time for Remembrance Day. Funny coincidence, that.

* * *

_

You watch him come through the kitchen door, a swirl of air announcing his arrival. His face is filled with excitement and anticipation and you know at once that he is bursting to tell you something.

"Polly!" he exclaims, his voice causing your heart to beat faster. "Polly, the Archduke of Austria's been assassinated! Everyone says there's going to be war!"

At first you don't understand; you've been too busy contemplating the flush in his face to realize the full impact of his words. Then your mouth falls open and you stammer, "But not really?"

So Digory sits down in the chair beside you and tries to explain the situation – that Austria-Hungary had an alliance with Germany and Italy, and Britain had an alliance with France, Russia, and Serbia, and as Austria-Hungary had declared war on Serbia, Britain would have to fight. But you have trouble comprehending, because you are distracted by the way Digory runs his tongue over his teeth when he gets excited.

Then he asks you something, and you realize you haven't paid any attention at all. "Sorry," you apologize, and you bite your lip and look away.

"You don't really want to know all this, do you?" he laughs, and stands to take your hand and pull you from your chair. "Let's go riding."

You find you can't resist his smile, and with a laugh and a nod you follow him outside.

-x-

The sky is bright and clear, the stars lined up in patterns for all the world to see. You lay in the grass beside Digory. His presence is the only thing you can think of, and you close your eyes and breathe in the scent of him and the grass and the air.

"Do you ever think of Narnia anymore?" he asks.

The question is unexpected, but you answer truthfully, "Sometimes." Laying there, listening to the crickets chirp, you almost feel as though you are there again.

Digory seems to think the same, for he sighs and says, "The stars look as though they are about to start singing. And I feel as though any moment we'll hear a whinny from Fledge."

"Dear Fledge." Your mind lingers on the image of strong wings and warm eyes. Beside you, Digory sighs again, but this time he says nothing. The silence is comfortable between the two of you.

You told him you have been thinking about Narnia, but that isn't completely true. Really, your mind has been flying to another part of the adventure – Charn, that harsh, cruel world. You can't forget that Jadis told you it had been a war that brought that world to its knees – a silly war between silly, dangerous sisters that led to the utterance of a word to end all. What description had the witch used, in describing Charn as she had known it? _The beating of war drums, the groans of the slaves, the rivers running red with blood._ Now war is coming to Britain, and you are afraid for what may happen here.

"Polly?" Digory asks after a time, and you wonder how long you have been silent. "Is something wrong?

You consider telling him, but know you won't. It's a wonderful night, and you don't want to spoil the moment. You are young, and war is far off and incomprehensible. Digory slips his hand into yours and a tingle runs down your spine. You are young, and you know you are in love.

-x-

The beginning of August is heralded by hot days and burning sun, and you find yourself hiding in the library, for it is the coolest room in this great big house Digory's family owns. You are curled in a corner on the floor where the heat is least noticeable, and although there's a book in your hand, you cannot read. Digory went down to the village this morning and has not yet returned. You cannot think what could delay him so long.

Then down below the door slams shut, and you hear the faint scolding of Digory's mother for not being more careful. But she stops right away, and you rise to your feet with curiosity as you hear Digory's voice but not his words. Then you hear him running up the steps and down the hall, and when the door bursts open you are not surprised in the least.

He looks as though he has run all the way form the village, and even as you wait he doubles over, sucking in deep breaths of air. His face is red, his forehead beaded with sweat, and a piece of your mind wonders at the state of his hair.

"Polly," he gasps, and sucking in one last deep breath, exclaims, "They've done it! Britain's declared war on Germany!"

A cold wave washes over you and your throat tightens at his words. You cannot think of anything to say, nor anything to do, and barely manage to stay on your feet.

"All the men in the village were enlisting," he explains. "The whole village was simply buzzing with the news."

Your throat feels even tighter. "You didn't-"

He doesn't notice your soft voice in his excitement. "I enlisted too. I'm going to war and glorious victory, Polly!"

Your heart plummets and still you have nothing to say.

-x-

It is official – Digory leaves to fight in a week's time. The two of you try to make the most of every moment you have left together, but everything is tainted by what is to come. So often your mind drifts to what could happen, and you are not sure if you could bear to live without him.

There have been plenty of weddings down in the village between the girls and the men going to war. You are not completely sure why, but you know you wish you were one of the brides. But you cannot decide whether it would be worse to know it was your husband or fiancé fighting, rather than your sweetheart, and besides, Digory hasn't asked. You have tried to bring it up, but it feels strange and embarrassing, and you always lapse into an awkward silence before he understands what it is you are asking.

"Jane is marrying Roger on Wednesday," you say idly one time, looking out the window at the too- cheerful meadow. "It must be nice to be sure of something before he leaves for war."

"Mm," is all Digory says, and you turn around to see that he is reading again.

"Are you even listening?" you ask sharply, and he looks up slowly. So you repeat what you had said, and it feels more self-conscious the second time.

"I suppose it would be nice," he replies simply, and goes back to his book.

Sometimes Digory is so dense you want to yell at him but you can't – not about this. So you leave him to his reading and decide that if he is going to ask, he will do it on his own time.

-x-

The train leaves in a quarter of an hour, and you and Digory are already at the station. Your cheeks are wet and you know Digory is worried, not for the war but for you. Several times already he has asked if you will be all right, and each time your smile grows tighter as you assure him.

Your finger is still bare of a ring, and you can't help but notice the wedding bands of the other girls at the station. You watch the lingering kisses and wish desperately for one of your own, but it does not come.

The conductor calls, and with a tight smile of his own, Digory embraces you quickly before lifting his suitcase. "You'll be here when I come back?" he asks, and of course you say yes. Then, filled with a sudden boldness you never knew you had, you lift to your toes and plant a kiss on his cheek.

After that you aren't quite sure what has happened, except that he is gone and the train is rolling from the station and the taste of him still lingers on your lips.

-x-

At first the letters are constant, describing everything about his training and the soldiers he has met. Digory describes the living conditions, the food he has eaten, the uniform he has received, and anything else he has experienced. You devour the letters and write long ones in return, telling him about all that has gone on. You tell him that you have gone back to your home in the city, and about your visit with his old Aunt Letty, and that you have been considering getting a job. Always you end your letter with the words, _Aslan bless you_, when really you want to say something else entirely.

After a while the letters become shorter. Digory says nothing more about what he has been doing – you know he is in the trenches but that is all. He has said nothing about anything important, and you have to rely on the descriptions of others. There seems to be less and less to write about, and the letters become more and more infrequent.

-x-

Nearly a year has passed since Digory left. He returns home on leave for one short week but you can only see him for three days for you are busy with your work. When you first step off the train to see him, you are expecting that now, finally, he will ask you the question you have been waiting for – but Digory's face is drawn and pinched and he says little. By the end of the three days you are almost relieved to go home, because the man you have been visiting is not the Digory you used to know. He has changed, and suddenly you are afraid that you have too.

-x-

You are walking down the street, carefully dodging puddles as the rain drips down your neck, when someone falls into you. Somehow you stay upright, but the stranger is less fortunate, landing hard on the wet ground. As you help the man up, you can't help but notice his cane and the careful way he holds it.

He takes your offer to help him home, and along the way you listen to his rambling monologue. He is a wounded soldier, only recently returned home – his leg had been shot and nearly amputated. His descriptions of war are more vivid than any you have heard, and although the things he describes are terrible, you do not stop him.

"I say," he mutters as you near his house. "I shouldn't be telling you this."

He turns to face you apologetically and suddenly you realize the man can be no older than Digory. The war has made this stranger age in ways you will never understand.

-x-

That month you receive only one letter from Digory. In it he reminisces about Narnia and the fresh, clean beauty of it. _They were all happy,_ he writes, _They had never known war nor pain nor suffering. There was no evil, the way the Lion had meant it to be. Do you think because we brought Jadis into that world, one day there will be a war there too? Do you think we have caused the deaths of hundreds – thousands, millions – of innocents? Day and night these questions have been plaguing me, and I feel so alone._

_But you aren't alone,_ you tell him. _Aslan is with you. He is with all the Narnians in their battles and sorrows. And I am here for you, too._

-x-

You meet the wounded soldier again, this time as you make your way home from mass. It has been a few months since the first time you saw him, but already he looks better – less world weary. He still uses a cane, but now holds it with confidence.

"We meet again!" he exclaims as you come up to him, and his voice is so much lighter than before. "I would ask if I could walk you home, but with my bad foot it may not be a good idea."

You smile – a real smile – and suggest you walk him home instead. The man heartily agrees, and immediately shifts his cane to his left hand before holding out his right. "We never properly introduced. The name's Donald Anderson."

"Polly Plummer," you reply, and as you shake his hand you feel pleased with his firm grip.

-x-

You see Donald more often, as Digory writes less. Your days don't seem as grey and gloomy as before, and you find you are smiling again. Donald is full of jokes and good humour. You find yourself looking forward to visits with him and you spend more and more time together.

Some days you visit Donald to find that he has fallen into a strange mood of depression, and you sit for hours listening as he tells you the horrors of war. No one else has told you such things, not even Digory, with whom you had shared everything for so long. It feels to you that Digory has been trying to spare you the horrors of war, and you wonder if he believes you are not strong enough. You know you are, you know this each time you take Donald's hand and listen to his shuddering voice and whisper meaningless comforts for the sake of saying something in reply.

On the days you receive a letter it is always with a twinge of guilt. You don't say much about Donald to Digory – you tell yourself it would be too hard to explain, but really you don't know how Digory would take it. When he returns home on leave again, you do not go to see him. You tell him it is because you are busy with your job, but really, it is because you are afraid. You cannot bear to see the despairing individual Digory has become.

-x-

Spring is blooming and the air is fresh and clean. You sit on the grass in the yard with Donald, his cane resting on the ground behind you and out of sight.

Donald seems to be nervous about something, and you feel anxious, although you are not sure why. He seems fidgety, his hand going in and out of his pocket to rummage thoughtfully. It makes you wonder if today is going to turn into a bad day, with a sudden transition to war and darkness. It has happened before, and you know how to handle it, but it makes your heart ache each time.

"Polly," Donald says suddenly, and you hear his voice tremble a little. "Polly, I – I think you must know by now how I feel about you. You have been a constant companion to me ever since I returned home. You are like a light in a dark world to me, Polly. I – I need to know, would you become my wife?"

He slips a box from his pocket and opens it to reveal a little silver ring nestled on the cushion. Your heart pounds, and your mouth is dry and your eyes are wet.

You say yes. In the moment before you do, you remember Digory and all the times you had together – all the adventures the two of you had been on. But you have been waiting too long now; too much has been uncertain with him. With Donald, you can see a clear picture of the road ahead. You know you will be happy, you know that you won't regret this. You know you will have a wedding.

You say yes.

-x-

_Digory_, you write, _I'm getting married. The man's name is Donald Anderson. He's a wounded soldier, a wonderful man. We'll be having just a small wedding in two weeks._

_I waited for you,_ you want to add, _I waited but you never asked. _But of course you cannot tell him that, so you don't.

The reply is short, shorter than any other letter he has sent you. _Polly, I am glad for you. I do hope you will find happiness with him. Sincerely, Digory._

It is the last letter you receive.

-x-

The war ends, but you do not see Digory until two months later, and then it is by accident. He is coming out of a used bookstore, his arms full of old texts – loose papers and crumbling spines. He stops when he notices you, his mouth hanging open much like it used to when you first saw him each summer. His face looks more weathered, but his eyes are less pinched than when you saw him during his leave.

"Polly!" he exclaims. "How are you?"

You tell him that you are fine, and although the two of you talk shortly, the conversation is stilted and it doesn't lead to much. You agree with him that you must have lunch together so he can meet Donald, but by the time you part no date has been chosen.

As you walk away, you realize the sight of his face no longer makes your heart pound.

_Fin_


End file.
